


Wake Up and Stop Shaking

by GotTheSilver



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Community: trope_bingo, Frottage, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTheSilver/pseuds/GotTheSilver
Summary: “What is it this time, Cap?”“You were drinking.”“Yep,” Tony says, sitting at his workstation and starting to poke at the detritus left there from the last time he was working.  Flinging a screen up, he brings the latest suit design up and focuses in on the repulsor on his right arm.  “You said I wasn’t to be around you if I was drinking.”“I didn’t mean—you don’t need to lock yourself away.”“Dum-E stopped me choking, it’s fine.”There’s silence from Steve and then.  “He stopped you choking?”





	Wake Up and Stop Shaking

**Author's Note:**

> fill for trope bingo: in vino veritas/drunk fic
> 
> along with alcohol abuse and all that involves, contains themes of apathy towards one's death that could be read as suicidal ideation.
> 
> set sometime post Avengers.

Tony’s drunk. It’s not so much of a new state of affairs but he hasn’t done this since the merry band of superheroes came to live with him because. Well. Might as well break them in slowly when it comes to his various fuck ups. It’s not like they don’t know he drinks; he’d be willing to bet his entire fortune on the fact that they’ve all read the profile Natasha wrote, and fuck knows she witnessed him at almost rock bottom, so it shouldn’t be a surprised to any of them that he’s stumbling through the rebuilt tower, occasionally needing to find a wall for balance.

It’s taken less liquor than he thought to get him into this state, his well earned tolerance apparently taking a dip with the small break from drinking, and Tony—it’s more cost effective, he’ll say that about it, but he absolutely isn’t happy about the fact he can predict that he’s going to end up with his head in a toilet tonight. That wasn’t the plan, in so much as there had been a semblance of a plan at all. There’d been a phone call, Pepper, again, board of directors making noises, all of that coming at him and—.

Then there’d been a bottle of scotch in the workshop that he hadn’t touched in months.

It went down like an old familiar friend, not smooth, but raw, almost scalding the back of his throat as he drank it, ignoring the looks the bots were giving him. He finished the bottle, took in his surroundings, pondered the idea of leaving it at just that bottle, and then dismissed it, rummaging around in an old cabinet until he found dozens upon dozens of those tiny airport sized bottles of liquor that he kept around for emergencies.

Not that this was an emergency. It was the same as it ever was, he couldn’t keep people around him. He was too much, all the time, and no one, not even Pepper, could take that for very long. So, not an emergency, but a good goddamn reason to get back to drinking like he used to.

At least, that’s what he’s mumbling to whoever it is that’s touching his face and saying his name in a soft tone. It’s Steve, he thinks. Maybe. Probably, judging by the way he’s being hauled to his feet with very little effort.

“Woah,” he manages to get out. “Don’t—might puke.”

The movement stops, and Tony thinks he’s about to get dropped back on his ass in the hallway, but then it’s one steady smooth motion and he’s staring up at the ceiling as he’s being carried somewhere, strong arms cradling him. His head isn’t spinning, but he’s got that horrible mouthfeel that foretells whatever happens is going to end messily, and he shakes his head violently as Steve aims to put him down on his bed. “Bathroom,” Tony spits out. “I need—”

Then it’s just cold porcelain against his skin, an ache in his knees and his throat raw, and neither of those in the way he would prefer.

At some point Steve leaves.

Tony can’t blame him.

*

Tony’s still in the clothes from the night before when he wakes up, actually in bed and not on the bathroom floor like he would’ve predicted. Staring up at the ceiling, he scratches his stomach underneath his New York Dolls t-shirt, the grease stained sweatpants pulling uncomfortably on his thighs as he shifts on the bed. He’s not hungover, not by his standards; it’s a mild ache in his head and a nasty taste in his mouth that’ll be gone by the time he’s downed his first coffee.

“Shower,” he mumbles to himself as he gets out of bed. “Shower first.” Squinting at the light coming through the windows, Tony grabs a pair of sunglasses and shoves them on his face. “JARVIS, enough with the sunlight,” he says as the door to the bathroom opens. “I get it, okay, I’m awake.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One day I’m going to reprogram you to stop judging me. Remind me.”

“Of course, sir. Should I put that above or below the reminder to stop me from questioning your actions when faced with a drawer of, as you put it, ‘tiny bottles from heaven’?”

“Smartass.”

The shower is exactly what he needs, water pounding down on his head as he stands there, events from the night before coming to him in fits and starts. Steve had been there, found him in—the hallway? Helped him to his room and then. Well. Tony’s last memory of Steve is watching him walk away, so that seems about right.

Opening his mouth, he gargles some of the water from the shower before spitting it out, the taste in his mouth dulled as he washes himself, scrubbing his hair to make sure there’s no surprises in there when he gets dressed.

Standing by the sink, towel wrapped around his waist as he brushes his teeth, Tony considers the bottle of brandy he has in his bedside table. It’s like a siren call, one he’d got really fucking good at ignoring, but last night—. He spits the toothpaste into the sink and rubs a hand over his face.

Breakfast. Breakfast of some kind, not alcohol based, and then. Then he’ll see.

*

Tony’s halfway through a blueberry kale smoothie when Steve walks in, fresh from a run, or the gym. Whichever it is, he’s sweating and it’s distracting Tony as he tries to actually go through his emails instead of just deleting the lot. Out the corner of his eye, Tony watches Steve get some water, down it, and then go back for more, his skin glistening in the light streaming in through the windows and, really, no one should look that attractive after physical exertion. Staring at an email from Fury, Tony can feel Steve’s eyes on him, and he shifts, picking up his smoothie and taking a long sip from it.

“I don’t know what it was like in the forties, Cap, but nowadays it’s rude to stare at a fella like that.”

“Are you okay?”

“Peachy keen,” Tony says, cc-ing Pepper on his reply to Fury, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “Why?”

“Last night, you—”

“You read my file,” Tony interrupts, not looking at Steve. “You can’t say you’re surprised.”

“That’s not what I—” Steve lets out a noise of frustration. “Could you look at me?”

“I could.” There’s a sudden strong clasp on his shoulder and Tony yelps, dropping his tablet and shooting Steve a glare. “What? What do you want?”

At that, the look on Steve’s face changes from concerned to pissed and, oh. Okay. Tony knows what’s coming next. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Steve says in a tight voice. “You lost Pepper, you almost died, we’re all living here and—I know how hard sudden change is, but if you’re just—” Steve bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Don’t expect me to watch you throw up in a toilet again.”

“Noted,” Tony says, even though it feels like he just had a bucket of ice poured over him. “Is that all?”

“One more thing,” Steve says over his shoulder as he turns to leave. “Don’t talk to me when you’ve been drinking. It reminds me of my father.”

Tony leans back in his chair, feet trailing against the floor. “You and me both, Cap. You and me both.”

*

And so, life carries on. Tony resists the call of the alcohol in the tower, doesn’t go out looking for it, spends most of his time in the workshop, aside from when he’s forced into sunlight to make a good impression on someone important. Apparently, world ending stuff is the only time they ever actually need Iron Man, so most of the time it’s Steve, Natasha and Clint being sent out, and that’s—Tony didn’t want to be a soldier, be part of Fury’s little gang, so it’s fine. Really.

But then.

Then there’s a bad one.

Villain of the month, Tony doesn’t care to know his name, but it’s structures falling and needing air support and he’s—.

Too late. He’s too late.

They said that they saved more people than they lost, but what it comes down to is those thirty six people they didn’t save. The ones that won’t go home again, won’t get to hug their friends again, and.

He’s never been too good at accepting collateral damage.

“Blackout, JARVIS,” he says when he gets back to the workshop, having discarded the suit as soon as he possibly could. “No one in.”

“Initiating blackout.”

“Fuck,” Tony breathes out, chest tight as he falls onto the couch. There’s a million things he could do right now, could try the breathing, could call Rhodey, could call anyone, but—.

There’s a bottle, and in the end, that’s always easier.

*

Dum-E’s poking him in the sternum frantically, and Tony coughs, chokes a little on—oh great, vomit. Rolling over, he grabs whatever receptacle is nearest and empties his stomach into it, his throat protesting with every moment, stomach muscles clenching with the effort until all that’s coming up is bile. Sitting up, he touches Dum-E clumsily. “Yeah, you saved me,” he mutters. “Well done.”

“Captain Rogers is outside,” JARVIS says, louder than Tony would like him to be at this particular moment in time.

“What? Why?”

“He became concerned when you didn’t resurface.”

“Tell him to fuck off.” There’s silence from JARVIS, and Tony sighs. “I’m not letting him in,” he says. “So I’ll see him when I see him.”

“Captain Rogers would like me to tell you that he’s willing to test the strength of the glass against his own strength.”

Against his better judgement, Tony smirks to himself. “Some backbone from the good Captain at last.” Rubbing two fingers against his forehead, Tony tentatively stands up. “Tell him to give me a minute.” Walking over to the sink, he grabs the mouthwash and rinses his mouth out before splashing some water on his face. The bucket of vomit goes into the bathroom, flushed away, and Tony puts the bucket in the makeshift shower, running some water into it to wash out the remnants.

He doesn’t bother changing his clothes, and by the time he’s back in the workshop, he can hear Steve knocking on the glass. “Let him in, JARVIS. End blackout.” The glass tempers back to normal as the door slides open, Steve’s face slightly startled as it does. “What is it this time, Cap?”

“You were drinking.”

“Yep,” Tony says, sitting at his workstation and starting to poke at the detritus left there from the last time he was working. Flinging a screen up, he brings the latest suit design up and focuses in on the repulsor on his right arm. “You said I wasn’t to be around you if I was drinking.”

“I didn’t mean—you don’t need to lock yourself away.”

“Dum-E stopped me choking, it’s fine.”

There’s silence from Steve and then. “He stopped you choking?” Steve’s voice is small, low, and Tony’s shoulders tense up at it. “Tony, if you—why do you do this?”

And there’s the question that Tony never wants to answer. Doesn’t know how to answer, because where is he even meant to start? That it was the easiest way to cope when your brain just wouldn’t shut off, when you were a child genius around people years older than you, when you were at college and the only way to be accepted was to show off just how much you could take and still come out on top. And now. Now, with the reactor in his chest, the world crumbling around him, the nightmares of the wormhole—Tony thinks it’s a fucking miracle he hasn’t drunk himself to death already.

Tony’s hands shake a little and he rests them on the workstation surface. “Does it matter? Cap—Steve, I—this is how it is.”

“I don’t believe that,” Steve says, stepping around the workstation and looking at Tony through the deconstructed repulsor. “I read your file, you know I did, but I also spoke to Natasha, spoke to Pepper—”

“Great, everyone has an opinion—”

“And,” Steve carries on, ignoring Tony. “They told me what you were going through when that file was written. You were dying.”

“Not for the first time.”

“Tony, you saved your own life. That’s incredible.”

“Necessary,” Tony says. “Not incredible.”

Steve shakes his head and reaches over, taking one of Tony’s hands in his, and Tony can’t do anything but stare. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Tony asks, itching to pull his hand away from the warmth of Steve’s grip because he can’t—people don’t touch him like this. Not without wanting something.

“For saying you’re like my father was,” Steve says, thumb brushing over the back of Tony’s hand. “He never—if you were anything like him, this would be a different conversation.”

Tony frowns, meeting Steve’s eyes. “I don’t—and this is rare, so savour it it—I don’t understand.”

“He beat my mom,” Steve says. “Drank a lot. Used his fists a lot. You’re not like that—”

“Damaged? I think you’ll find—”

“Cruel. You’re not cruel, Tony. Not when you drink, not any other time. If you were, then you wouldn’t’ve been down here after yesterday.”

“What am I, then?”

“A teammate,” Steve says, squeezing Tony’s hand before letting go. “A friend?” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I was going to see a movie tonight, there’s a—Natasha called it a repertory cinema? Shows old movies, new to me most of the time. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll be leaving at seven.”

“If I—”

“It’s your choice,” Steve says, turning to leave. “I’d like the company.”

“What movie is it?” Tony asks as Steve reaches the door.

“The Godfather.”

Tony hums to himself, picking up a screwdriver from the table. “Seven?”

“Seven,” Steve confirms, the door sliding shut behind him.

*

There’s a split second when Tony thinks that maybe Steve had been lying to him and that there’s really an intervention happening, but no, it’s a movie theatre that Tony finds himself outside after a short, quiet walk there. Tony spent most of the walk trying to remember when the last time he actually took a walk in the city was and absolutely failing, and Steve seemed content to walk in silence. It wasn’t, at least from what Tony could tell, an uncomfortable silence, and he found himself sneaking glances at Steve as they walked, watching him watch the city.

Steve pays for the tickets, despite Tony protesting, and they easily skirt around the bar, but stop at the concessions for popcorn and m&ms with Tony throwing two bags of m&ms in the popcorn and shaking it all together, swearing to Steve that it’ll taste good.

The movie is as Tony remembers it, and even though he hasn’t watched it in years it still captures him, and he finds himself caught up in the drama and betrayal, sinking into his seat for the duration. All too soon, the lights come up and he blinks at the sudden change, turning to look at Steve. “Did you like it?”

“I did,” Steve says. “He—Pacino? I’d like to see more with him.”

“That can happen,” Tony says, offering Steve a small smile that gets returned easily. They sit there, watching the theatre empty around them and waiting for it to be quiet enough to leave without being approached. Generally, New Yorkers don’t give a fuck about them, but Tony’s not in the mood to be accosted by anyone, however well meaning. “There’s two more of these,” he says to Steve. “The second one, people think it’s as good, better, than the first, and the third, it has some issues, but it’s not the dross that everyone says it is.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Can we—do you have them at the tower?”

“JARVIS can—you do _use_ JARVIS, don’t you?” Tony asks, turning in his seat to look at Steve. “You know he can help you with whatever you want?”

“I use JARVIS, Tony, I just wondered if you had the movies.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“I never lie,” Steve says, the corner of his mouth turning up. “And I’m hungry, do you want to grab a bite before we go back?”

“Dinner and a movie, Cap?” Tony blurts out without thinking, and, goddamnit, that was the dumbest thing he could say.

“That’s not—”

“Yeah,” Tony interrupts before Steve can protest too hard, standing up and grabbing his jacket. “I could eat.”

“Tony,” Steve says, grabbing Tony’s hand. “Can you stop? Why are you running off?”

Tugging his leather jacket on, Tony shoots Steve a tight smile. “Nothing, not running, I didn’t want you to—”

“I date men,” Steve says in a rush, a slight flush of colour on his cheeks. “At least, I would if I—”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, I—” Steve breaks off, dropping Tony’s hand. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Okay.”

“Because I don’t want you to think that I would—that I think there’s a problem with that.”

“Right.”

Steve sighs and grabs his jacket. “Let’s just—there’s a place a block away that I like to eat at.”

“Okay,” Tony says again, somewhat at a loss as to what’s just occured, and he shakes his head, following Steve out of the cinema.

*

A few days later, Tony’s in a meeting with the board when he gets a call from Steve, mouthing apologies at Pepper, he excuses himself and steps outside. “What’s going on?”

“Are you busy? I should’ve waited.”

“It’s just a board meeting,” Tony says, stepping into an empty conference room. “Don’t worry about it—”

“Still, I should let you—”

“What is it?”

“Fury was wondering— _I_ was wondering if you wanted to come on a mission.”

Tony’s somewhat stunned into silence. “Why?”

“Because you’re an Avenger.”

“But you—I’m never needed for the smaller missions.”

“No one ever said that, Tony,” Steve says down the line. “You have the specs, I’d like you to come. We leave in an hour, you know where to meet us.”

Tony’s left with silence ringing in his ears and a deep, undeniable need to suit up. He saw the details earlier, a recon mission somewhere in Indiana, nothing high level or high threat, intel pegging it as a precaution more than anything. Mostly, it looks boring, and god knows he’s never thought about willingly going to Indiana, but—.

Tony wants to do it, wants to be able to suit up for reasons other than the end of the world, reasons that aren’t death and destruction.

He has a vague memory of it being fun, once upon a time, and fuck, but he’s missed that feeling. Leaving the conference room, Tony spots Pepper at the end of the hallway and he catches her attention, staying where he is as she walks towards him.

“Please don’t tell me the world’s ending again, I have a date tonight.”

“No, it’s not—wait, you have a date? Did JARVIS run a background check on him?”

“Tony—”

“I’m just looking out for you, Pep, that’s all.”

There’s a small smile on her face and she shakes her head. “Okay. What was the call about?”

“Cap wants me on a mission,” Tony says, the words sounding strange in his mouth. “It’s not urgent, but I—I think I want to go.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You should get in the suit,” Pepper says. “You haven’t—god I can’t believe I’m going to say this—but you’re happier when you have an excuse to fly. Take the excuse.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “I feel like I’m being tricked somehow.”

“Go. Please.”

Nodding, Tony leans in and kisses her cheek before turning on his heel and heading out.

*

The suit always feels like coming home, and this time is no different. Tony catches up to the quinjet and contemplates just flying alongside, but then opens his comms. “Cap? Open up.”

“Glad you could make it, Tony,” comes Steve’s voice as the back to the quinjet opens.

Steadying himself on the floor of the quinjet, he heads towards the front of the jet, faceplate opening as he does. Natasha’s at the helm, Steve leaning against a wall, a smile crossing his face as he looks at Tony. “What?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to look so self satisfied.”

“Sure, Tony.”

“Shut up,” Tony says, returning the smile before looking away. “What’s the plan?” he asks, stepping out of the suit, trying to ignore the look Steve’s giving him.

“We go in, we get information, we leave,” Natasha says without looking up.

“Detailed, thanks.”

“There’s a building that Fury thinks has something going on,” Steve says. “You and Natasha are here because Fury doesn’t trust me with computers.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Clearly he doesn’t know that you downloaded the entirety of Mad Men last week.” Narrowing his eyes at Steve, Tony leans in and lowers his voice. “So is it that you don’t want Fury to know you’re smart, or do you not think you’re smart? Because I’ve seen you. You might be catching up, but you do that quickly.”

“It’s not—” Steve breaks off and tilts his head towards the back of the quinjet, taking a few steps away. Tony follows, his curiosity piqued. “I know I’m doing okay,” Steve says. “But the technology stuff? It doesn’t come as easy to me as it does to you—”

“Steve, that’s—”

“You’re a genius, Tony,” Steve interrupts. “All I’m saying is that I can give a lay person a run for their money, the serum saw to that, but you? It’s like breathing to you, it’s your natural state. Don’t downplay that.”

“Not something I’ve ever been accused of before,” Tony says with a soft huff of laughter. “Thanks,” he says after a pause.

“For what?”

“For inviting me along,” Tony says. “I think I forgot what it was like to be in the suit when it wasn’t life or death.”

“I—”

“Coming in for landing, boys,” Natasha says, interrupting whatever Steve was going to say. “Local playing field not far from the building, should be in and out before anyone notices we’re here.”

*

The system they’re infiltrating is laughably simple, but Tony’s not sure what information it is that Fury’s after. There’s weapons, sure, but nothing advanced enough to bother SHIELD.

“What is it?” Steve asks from over Tony’s shoulder.

“Nothing, that’s the weird thing,” Tony says. “J? Go a little deeper, because this isn’t it. Natasha?”

“Same as you,” she says, a note of frustration in her voice. “None of this is worth anything.”

“Sir, I think you’ll find—”

“Oh hello,” Tony says, as the screen floods with information. “This is it,” he says scanning the screen. “They’re—huh. They want their own breed of super soldiers, but—I really need Bruce for this—they want to—” Tony cuts himself off and squints at the screen. “That’s disturbing.”

“There’s voices at the main entrance to the building,” Steve says suddenly. “We need to get out of here.”

“J? Everything copied?”

“Yes sir.”

“Cap, we erasing or not letting them know we were here?”

“Erase it,” Steve says, jaw set. “And hurry up.”

“You heard the man,” Tony says, watching as JARVIS initiates the request. “Annnnd we’re done.” Tony slips his phone back into his pocket and nods at Natasha. “Let’s go.”

They get back to the quinjet without being spotted and Tony watches through the window as Natasha takes them up into the air. “Let me know if you want a break,” Tony says to her before walking off and sitting on a bench. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he flicks through the information and makes a face.

“How were they going to do it?” Steve asks, sitting next to him, handing him a bottle of water.

“Uh. Breeding facilities,” Tony says with a grimace. “They were looking at women who would be capable of growing a super soldier and, well. It wasn’t exactly the most detailed plan, but it looked like they were planning on attempting to kidnap you and—”

“That’s—I don’t even know what to say about that,” Steve says, a hollow look on his face. “Did they—we didn’t leave any women there, did we?”

“No,” Tony says immediately. “They hadn’t actually done anything to put it in motion. Lots of horrifying plans that might give me nightmares, but, no. No one actually imprisoned.” Tony looks down, seeing Steve’s hands clenching. “You want to punch something when we get home?”

Steve shakes his head, slumping against the wall. “I’m so tired of this,” he says quietly. “People trying to remake me. You’d think they’d learn it never ends well.”

Reaching over, Tony wraps both his hands around Steve’s right hand. “Well—god you’re warm—we stopped these ones,” he says. “That’s something. Cap, they’re never going to stop, that’s—” Tony breaks off and presses his lips together for a moment. “People see what they don’t have, and they want it. Way of the world. All we can do is fight to keep things out of the wrong hands.”

“That’s—”

“Small, I know,” Tony says with a smile. “I’m usually all about the big ideas, but maybe—” Tony sighs. “Fuck, maybe I’m growing up, isn’t that a horrifying thought?”

“No,” Steve says with a smile that Tony can’t quite decipher. “It’s not.”

*

Tony wakes up screaming, clutching at the reactor in a panic and—.

It’s okay.

He’s not.

Obie isn’t.

“It’s 3:14am, Sir,” JARVIS says. “You’re in New York.”

Yeah. Yes.

He needs a drink.

Throwing the sheets off him where they’re tangled around his legs, Tony shakily walks to the bar in his room only to find it empty. Swearing loudly, he tugs on a pair of sweatpants and heads out of the bedroom, stomping his way through to the bar in the living room. It’s quiet, Tony assumes all his teammates have gone to bed, or are elsewhere, and—good. That’s good.

Standing there, he picks out a bottle of Glenlivet and turns, almost dropping the bottle when he sees Steve on the couch. “What the—”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking up from his book, his eyes darting to the bottle before looking back at Tony’s face. “Hi, Tony.”

“What are you doing here?” Tony asks, suddenly very aware of the fact he’s a sweaty, shirtless mess. “Not that you—it’s almost 4am.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve says with a shrug. “When I tried—wouldn’t work. Guess for the same reasons you’re clutching that bottle.”

“Cap—” Tony presses his fingers against his forehead. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he says. “I’m taking my bottle, and I’m going back to my room.”

Steve folds the corner of the page over and closes the book, placing it by his side. “You don’t have to.”

“Drink? No, I know I don’t have to. Sure helps, though.” Tony’s hand is twitching and he wants to run off, leave Steve sitting there so he can drink in peace, in the dark sanctuary of his own room. “I—there’s a BAC lock on the suits, if you’re worried. Can’t get in them if I’m over the limit.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“I’m not going to drink enough to die tonight, Cap, this is just to help me sleep. Not that it would really matter, anyway.” The words are barely out of Tony’s mouth before Steve’s on his feet and then he’s right there, gripping Tony’s arm.

“Don’t joke about that,” Steve says firmly. “Don’t ever—”

“Sure, okay,” Tony says dismissively.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Not entirely sure what I’m supposed to get,” Tony says, itching to open the bottle. “Cap, look, if I die, the suits go to Rhodey, the company goes to Pepper, and the tower stays as a base for the Avengers. Not much changes.”

“You wouldn’t be here,” Steve says quietly, his grip on Tony’s arm getting tighter. “You wouldn’t—how can you think that wouldn’t matter?”

Tony looks down, trying to avoid Steve’s eyes. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“Could’ve fooled me—”

“But,” Tony interrupts, his face flushing. “I don’t think it would make much of a difference if I were alive or dead.”

Steve drops his arm, and Tony could leave, could escape to his room and drown himself in the bottle to try and forget the last hour of his life but he doesn’t, and he has no goddamn idea why not.

“It would,” Steve says softly. “It would make a difference to me.”

There’s something in Steve’s tone that makes Tony look up, and when he does, he sees a glassy sheen over Steve’s eyes, and great, now he’s making Captain America cry. “Can you—with the—”

“Tony.” Steve’s hand cups Tony’s face and Tony doesn’t—this wasn’t in the Captain America instruction booklet, he has no idea—.

And then Steve’s mouth is on his and Tony—.

Steve’s lips are soft, firm but not insistent, and Tony’s mind blanks out, his grip on the bottle tightening as Steve kisses him.

“It would make a difference to me,” Steve says again as he pulls away, his thumb brushing over Tony’s cheek before he drops his hand. “I’m going to try and sleep.”

“Steve—”

“You can drink that,” he says, gesturing to the bottle that Tony’s still holding onto. “Or, if you want, you can join me. Not for—just to sleep.”

And then he’s gone, walking away and leaving Tony to make the choice.

Tony sits on the couch and opens the bottle, putting it on the table. Leaning back against the plush cushions, he stares at it, knowing how easy it would be to pick it up and drain it. He’s done it before, more times than he can remember. He’s thrown back bottles of the stuff, not caring how much it costs or what damage he might be doing to himself. It’s always been the easiest decision because he knows the result; can do the math, understands what will happen if he drinks just enough to go to sleep, then a little bit more to silence the voices, a bit more so that he can forget, then enough so that he—so that maybe it’ll be over and he won’t wake up.

He stares at the bottle and the bottle stares right back.

It’s like there’s a ticking clock inside his head and with every beat, the scent of the liquor gets stuck in the back of his throat like its already there, soothing all that ails him.

Tony pauses. Reaches. Tips the bottle to his lips.

It’s just one swig. One long swig. But just one.

It hits his tongue and his closes his eyes, savouring it.

One. Only one.

Somehow, he puts the bottle back down. He’s barely made a dent in it, to anyone else it would look like it’s still full. Untouched.

Tony knows better.

Getting to his feet, he doesn’t bother rinsing his mouth out before making his way to Steve’s room. Pushing the door open, he pauses, not sure how much time has passed or if Steve’s even still awake.

“I—”

“Tony?”

“I didn’t drink it all,” he says. “I had some. But I put it down.”

In the dim light of the room, Tony can’t make out what the look on Steve’s face is, but he hears the sigh, and he’s ready to turn and leave when—.

“Come here,” Steve says. “You—if you want.”

“But you—”

“I know.”

At that, Tony doesn’t hesitate, strides across the room and scoots under the covers, burying his face in a pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Steve. A firm hand touches his back and Tony tries to swallow the sob rising up in his throat, but the gentle sweeping movement of Steve’s fingers along his spine is too much and—.

He lets go.

It’s fucking embarrassing, that one kiss should reduce him to this; a sobbing mess in someone else’s bed, but once he starts, he can’t stop. It’s like everything he’s ever buried inside him is spilling out, and Tony _hates_ it. Wants to resent Steve for forcing his hand, for not letting him bury himself inside a bottle but. That’s not it. Tony knows that.

He made his choice.

Somewhere in it all, Steve’s got him wrapped up in his arms, holding him close, and that’s—. Tony goes with it.

It’s the last thing he remembers.

*

Waking up feeling full of dread isn’t something Tony’s unused to, but being unable to escape because of a super soldier treating him like a personal teddy bear is something new. Steve’s arms are holding him tight, and there’s a strong thigh thrown over Tony’s legs that’s pinning him to the bed and—.

Tony really wants out.

He wants to find that bottle and finish it.

“Stay,” Steve says quietly, his sudden voice making Tony go stock still. “I’ll let you go, if you want, but stay. I’d like you to.”

“I covered you in snotty tears,” Tony says, staring up at the ceiling.

“Eh. The guy I’m staying with can afford the laundry bill.”

“That’s really not the point I was making.”

Steve sighs, letting Tony go and rolling onto his back. “I get it,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen men bury themselves in liquor before, seen men have nightmares over things they can’t stop thinking about. What you’ve had happen to you—Tony, no one would be able to cope with it without falling apart somehow.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

Tony shifts onto his side so he can look at Steve, one hand reaching up and resting on Steve’s chest. “How do you cope?”

“I’m not sure I do,” Steve says. “Waking up, all I knew was the war, all I knew was fighting, and we did that again, we took down Loki, but now—. Now I have to live each day and I—” Steve lets out a shaky breath. “You made it easier, not because you’re Howard’s son, but because you’re so present, all the time. This world was built for you, and watching you navigate it, I thought that maybe I would be able to find a home here as well.”

“You _have_ a home here.”

“Not if you don’t want to be part of it.”

That makes Tony pause, and he curls a little closer to Steve, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and clinging to him like a damn koala. Steve’s hands come up and grip Tony’s forearm, and Tony breathes out, not wanting to let go. “I can’t stop drinking cold turkey,” he says after a moment. “That’s not—it would be dangerous, and when I’m not using it to distract, I actually like it. I am capable of drinking without getting drunk, or dying.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve never—this is going to sound very rich kid tragedy, but I can count on one hand the people in my life who care about me, and sometimes even then I wonder about their motives. And then you all come along, and you’re living here, and you say you care but my brain, it still—”

“I’ll go and live in a SHIELD apartment if it’ll convince you I don’t want you for your money,” Steve interrupts. “Say the word.”

“No,” Tony says, holding onto Steve tighter. “You’re not going anywhere. Look, I know I get in my own head, that when I do, I drink too much because it’s the only goddamn way to switch my brain off but, maybe, I guess we could—I’d like it if we—”

“Had sex?”

Tony untangles himself from Steve and pushes himself up on one elbow. “Excuse me? Did you just suggest I use sex to distract from my issues? Steven Grant Rogers, I am ashamed of you.”

There’s a lazy grin on Steve’s face and Tony can’t help but return it, fingers back to trailing along the edge of Steve’s shirt. Tony can feel Steve’s eyes on him as he slips his fingers underneath Steve’s shirt; greeted by the expanse of warm skin Tony flattens his palm against Steve’s stomach, smiling when Steve bites his bottom lip.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Tony says as he climbs on top of Steve, sheets pooling around them. “I’ve been drinking my feelings since I was thirteen.”

“I’m not asking you to change, Tony.”

“You kind of are,” Tony says, shifting until he can sprawl on Steve, hands resting either side of Steve’s head. “Not in a bad way, but—”

“I want you to want to live,” Steve says, one hand resting on Tony’s ass, looking for all the world like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here. “That’s all I want. If you tell me you can drink without it becoming an issue, then I’ll believe you unless you pass out on me. You don’t have to—I want _you_. Not the version of you that you think I’d like.”

Tony stares at Steve, at the way his jaw is stubbornly set, the softness in his eyes, and he—god, he wants to believe him. He really does. “For how long?” he asks quietly, an ache in his chest as he does so that has nothing to do with the reactor. “Pepper, she said that, but me being Iron Man was too much for her and she—”

“I’m not going to leave you,” Steve says, hand cupping the back of Tony’s neck and drawing him down. “I’m not,” he repeats, mouth brushing over Tony’s lip, and Tony just—.

He wants this. Wants _Steve_ , and fuck, it might be a bad decision, might end up with his heart shattered on the ground, but—.

Tony closes the tiny gap between them and catches Steve’s mouth in a kiss, sinking into it as Steve’s fingers thread through his hair, holding him in place. He wonders if Steve can taste the alcohol on him, if he’s thinking about how this could backfire on the both of them; Tony’s own mind is racing, panicked at the thought that this is going to fuck their lives up, will destroy whatever kind of normal they’ve managed to put together, but then Steve’s gripping his ass, holding him against his hardening cock and—.

The sheets are tangled around them, and neither of them bother to slip out of their sweatpants as they rut against each other; Steve’s hands are holding Tony firmly against him, and Tony can’t remember the last time this felt so good. Mouths brushing over each other, Tony licks at Steve’s bottom lip, laughing when Steve chases for a kiss, how he pouts when Tony moves his head just out of reach, but then—then Steve’s sliding a hand in the back of Tony’s sweatpants, and Tony whines, wanting to push back against Steve’s fingers, but not wanting to lose the fucking amazing sensation of Steve’s cock pressing up against his.

Steve’s surrounding him, voice low and whispering things Tony didn’t know he wanted to hear, heat pooling in his groin as they keep moving, gasping against each other’s mouths, sweat slick skin as Tony holds onto Steve, never wanting to let go. It’s been too long, and it’s too goddamn much for Tony, his hips rolling as he buries his face in Steve’s neck and comes, mouth pressed against sweaty skin.

He can hear Steve swearing, both of Steve’s hands gripping Tony’s hips tightly as he pushes up, seeking out that last bit of friction, and Tony lets himself be held, lets himself be used by Steve to get off. Scraping his teeth against Steve’s neck, Tony lets out a low laugh as Steve comes, hands so tight on Tony’s hips that Tony’s sure he’s going to end up with bruises.

Both of them breathing heavily, they stay like that, holding onto each other, Tony nuzzling against Steve’s neck, Steve turning his head to press his face against Tony’s hair.

“It’ll be worth it,” Steve says eventually, his hand tracing patterns against Tony’s sweaty back. “Whatever happens, it’ll be worth it.”

*

The bottle is still on the table, and Tony pauses in the doorway, Steve right behind him. He knew it would still be there, that it wouldn’t have vanished into the air, but seeing it there, Tony—.

He wants it. But he doesn’t.

It would be so easy to go and pick it up and finish what he barely started last night. To go and hide in the workshop and tinker away while draining the bottle, not noticing until it’s empty and then getting another one.

To work until he’s at risk of causing serious injury to himself.

It would be easy. The easiest decision he can make.

There’s a touch on his waist and he jolts himself from his thoughts. “I’m good,” he says, shooting a tight smile at Steve over his shoulder. He pauses and shakes his head. “I’m not good. I’ll get there.”

“It’s not a race, Tony,” Steve says, placing a kiss against the nape of Tony’s neck. “Put it away and I’ll make us breakfast. Meet me in the kitchen.”

With that, Steve walks away, and Tony—.

He appreciates the trust, he does. He knows why Steve is doing it, why he’s leaving it up to Tony, but Tony doesn’t know if he’s—.

Weak. He’s always been weak when it comes to alcohol, from the very first time he tasted it and realised how close to magic it was for solving all his problems.

He hates how fucking weak he is. Wants to rip that part out of himself and bury it, but—.

Tony picks the bottle up. The smell is familiar, comforting in ways that nothing else is. He could drink it. Could raise it to his lips, sink into the couch and be a mess for Steve to find.

He could do that.

Turning on his heel, he walks to the kitchen where Steve’s pulling out ingredients for waffles and, without saying a word, Tony tips the contents of the bottle down the sink, watching it swirl away.

It would be too easy to say it’s a relief. It’s not. He’s watching $4000 worth of liquor go down the drain, knowing he has so more in the tower, and he’s still panicking.

Slamming the empty bottle on the counter, he turns around, hands shaking by his side as he looks at Steve.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve says, putting the eggs down and stepping closer to Tony. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Maybe not,” Tony says, gaze darting around the kitchen to avoid looking at Steve. “But I had to prove it to myself.”

“And how do you feel?” Steve asks, fingers tilting Tony’s chin up so he can meet his eyes.

“Scared. Panicked. Like I want to vomit.” Tony shakes his head and reaches for Steve, arms circling around Steve’s waist as he pulls him closer. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Letting me make my own decisions.”

“Tony, I wouldn’t ever—I’m not your babysitter,” Steve says before pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Tony’s mouth. Tony turns his head into it, wanting more, and there’s a small jolt of pleasure at how easily Steve goes with it, pushing Tony up against the sink and deepening the kiss.

Tony didn’t think he could have this, not just Steve, but _this_ ; someone accepting him for all that he is, someone willing to call him out on his bullshit but leave him to make his own choices. It wasn’t on the cards for him, Tony had always known that, he was meant to drink himself to death, or crash in the suit, or—or—.

He was meant to be alone.

He was never meant to have this.

Tony’s vaguely aware of how tightly Steve is gripping his shirt and he feels like he should put up a protest given how much he likes the particular AC/DC shirt he’s wearing, but that would mean Steve letting go and that’s not something Tony wants to think about.

Eventually, he needs to breathe, and Tony breaks the kiss, laughing when Steve presses one more sloppy kiss against his mouth, tongue swiping over Tony’s bottom lip. Tapping his fingers against Steve’s hips, Tony raises an eyebrow. “Waffles?”

“I guess,” Steve says, nosing against Tony’s cheek before ducking his head and kissing a pattern down Tony’s neck. “If you want.” His teeth nip against Tony’s exposed collarbone and Tony tries to stifle a moan, unsuccessfully if the grin he can feel is anything to go by. There’s a thoughtful hum from Steve before he’s got his mouth back on Tony’s neck, marking him up like they’re goddamn teenagers, and Tony would protest, but he’s too busy digging his fingers into Steve’s arms and trying not to hump Steve’s leg.

“You’re a menace,” Tony says once Steve’s done, eyes glancing over the slight swell in Steve’s sweatpants, knowing he’s in a similar state. “An absolute menace.”

“You’ve called me worse,” Steve says easily, stepping away and reaching for the eggs. “Come help me make waffles.”

“Uh, you’ve seen me in the kitchen, right?” Tony asks, following Steve. “I’m assuming you want these waffles to be edible.”

“Beat the eggs,” Steve says, handing him a bowl. “I’ve got faith in you.”

Tony pauses at those words, looking from the bowl, to the eggs, to Steve’s face. Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, he nods. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll beat the eggs.”

The waffles turn out almost perfect.

Tony thinks he can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> there's no magic cure for addiction, but there's always hope.
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